


lockpicking 101

by sunsetpanic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, I'm not proud, M/M, diet bondage, if there is a plot in here it is totally not my fault, no seriously, so basically 100 percent porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetpanic/pseuds/sunsetpanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YouTube is the devil, and Stiles is not cut out for a life of crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lockpicking 101

Stiles has had a lot of really astoundingly awful ideas in his life: the Great Birdhouse Debacle of 2003, writing a love poem to Lydia Martin in fourth grade and actually giving it to her, and dragging his best friend into the woods in the middle of the night to look for a dead body and getting him turned into a werewolf. If there was a Nobel Prize awarded for most creative life-ruining plans, Stiles would totally win it. Twice, even, with a year’s worth of bonus Turtle Wax thrown in.

So, when he watches one too many YouTube lockpicking tutorials on too little sleep and remembers the cuffs hanging open on his wall, he maybe doesn’t think it through very much before he’s closed one bracelet over his wrist and attached the other to his headboard. It’s a basic criminal skill! How hard could it be?

Half an hour later he’s learned two things-one, lockpicking is very, very hard, a life of crime is clearly not for him, and two, he doesn’t know where the key to the handcuffs is.

He stares at it for awhile after that, mulling over his (really awful) options. He can sit up, but only barely, so he’s pretty much fucked if he doesn’t get some help. His dad left a few hours ago for a weekend surveillance seminar in Santa Carla, and calling him for help ranks somewhere below gnawing his hand off anyway. That pretty much leaves... Scott. Who will give him _so much shit_ for this, but at least Stiles won’t get the worried ‘Your Sexuality and You’ talk that he knows his dad would insist on. There would be pamphlets. Bondage pamphlets.

So Scott it is. Stiles listens to the rings, bracing himself. He’s pretty much reached his Zen place, potential humiliation-wise, so he just starts talking when the ringing stops. “Hey, Scott, man, I kind of really need your help. Like, stat.”

There’s a pause, then: “What’s going on?” It is definitely not Scott’s voice. Stiles is pretty sure it’s Derek’s. Stiles is also pretty sure that he’s actually going to die from embarrassment if Derek comes over, so. They’re friends now, he’s pretty sure, but he has his pride, dammit.

“On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you would believe me if I told you this was a joke? Also, why are you answering Scott’s phone?”

There’s an ominous silence on the other end. He winces. “It might help if you weren’t the world’s worst liar,” Derek says, and he’s either suppressing a laugh or seriously pissed off. “but I’d give it a zero. And Scott and Jackson are training out back. They left their stuff here.”

“Fair enough. Just-ask him to call me when he can? Or come over?”

He gets what might be a grunt of assent before his phone’s screen blinks and goes blank. Stiles throws his phone aside and slumps back against his headboard, ignoring the small piece of him that’s kind of disappointed that Derek didn’t ask more questions, didn’t sound at least a little concerned. It’s not that he’s surprised, exactly-watching _Troll 2_ with someone doesn’t count as a declaration of eternal friendship, he _knows_ that-but still.

Stiles pouts a little and tries to move on. Wallowing in self pity like a 12-year-old girl who got stood up by her date to the middle school formal won’t get him anywhere anyway.

Maybe his dad’ll buy him a hook. If Stiles is _really_ lucky, maybe he’ll lose an eye later and get a parrot. He pokes experimentally at his wrist-are his teeth sharp enough? This could take awhile.

He seriously needs better friends. Or a nap. Maybe he’ll plan better after a nap.

He wakes up to the sound of his window sliding open and has several minor heart attacks before he realizes it’s Derek. Of course it is. He can actually taste the mockery coming his way, but at least he won’t die chained to a bed. “It’s the cavalry!” he cheers.

“So this is your idea of a fun Saturday night.” Derek sounds suspiciously close to laughter. Stiles glares witheringly.

Maybe dying chained to a bed wouldn’t be so bad. “You are the worst cavalry ever,” he says accusingly.

Derek ignores him in favor of pushing off the windowsill and coming closer for better tormenting access. “Seriously, though, are you really this stupid? Have you been spending too much time around Scott? This is the kind of dumb shit he’d pull.”

Hey. Stiles feels obligated to speak up for Scott, even though Derek wasn’t being _technically_ inaccurate, there. “Scott isn’t dumb! He just has a different way of seeing the world which I feel is very valuable and unique.”

It’s a good point, Stiles thinks, and Derek’s dismissive huff is frankly uncalled for. “My point stands.”

“I was...experimenting?” Stiles watches Derek’s eyes widen fractionally and winces. “With lockpicking!” he adds hastily. “Not whatever you were thinking, if you were thinking anything. Which you weren’t.”

He gets a deadpan stare in response. Maybe he was totally wrong and Derek only watches vanilla porn.

“You should really be nicer to me, you know. If you need my help.” Derek’s voice is lower now, for no particular reason that Stiles can see. He’s looking at Stiles in an unfamiliar and frankly terrifying way, like he can see something about Stiles that Stiles can’t. Also-

“What do you mean, _nice_?” Stiles demands. “Like, saving your life multiple times? Because I have done that. Life saving already accomplished, here.”

Derek nods in what could generously be called agreement.

“So were you going to stand there and take pictures, or were you thinking about maybe doing your famous impression of a decent guy and getting me out of these?” He raises his arm and rattles the handcuffs for emphasis.

The twist resolves itself into a smirk. “Who says I can’t do both?” Which, okay, Stiles isn’t worried about losing a hand anymore. He’s worried about _dying of embarrassment_. Being an idiot in front of Derek is pretty much normal, for him. He manages that in front of a lot of people, and Derek’s seen most of it and still somehow seems to want Stiles around-seems to like him for it, even.

But Stiles doubts that that’ll stay the status quo if his massively weird crush on Derek comes out, and that’s going to be pretty much inevitable if Derek keeps using that voice. He’s seventeen! Sexual confusion is normal. Especially if the source of the sexual confusion is Derek Hale, who is both insanely attractive and actually secretly kind of an awesome guy. Who happens to be a super-powered werewolf who could totally rip Stiles apart in about thirty seconds.

Derek ruins this train of thought by leaning over him to take a look, violating Stiles’ personal space in a pretty huge way as he does. He’s focusing on the cuffs with total concentration, propping himself on Stiles absentmindedly while he examines them, one hand big and warm on Stiles’ chest. Stiles is very angry about this, and he plans to lodge a complaint somewhere as soon as he’s free and Derek isn’t touching him anymore.

For now, though, he leans back and lets Derek do his thing, because he probably won’t get this close ever again. And Derek smells awesome-spicy and sharp and warm, like cloves and wood smoke.

Stiles is startled out of his increasingly creepy reverie by Derek’s voice. “You’re staring.”

“I-yes! I’m chained to my bed and trapped underneath a crazy person, of course I’m staring. People who are afraid for their lives often stare. It’s _science_.”

It’s...not a super buyable excuse, and Derek is pretty clearly not buying it. “That’s not the kind of staring you’re doing.” He shifts, and suddenly he’s face to face with Stiles. “Your heart rate and respiration are up, you’re flushed, and--” He stops, waits for a second. Like he just asked a question and is waiting for Stiles to answer it.

Stiles is so fucked. He opens his mouth to-he’s not sure. Beg for his life? Somehow convince Derek that he, Stiles, is not in fact totally turned on right now? Deny?

Derek pointedly flicks his eyes down to Stiles’ crotch, and okay, denial might be a little pointless now.

Pleading sounds like a great plan right now, though. Stiles is all over pleading if it means he gets to escape this with his life. “Okay, fine, and if you’ll please just get me out of these cuffs we won’t ever have to talk about it and I can move to China or something and keep what’s left of my dignity. Or you can just kill me quickly, whatever-”

He cuts himself off abruptly when Derek growls low and sits up, repositioning them so Stiles is sprawled on the bed and Derek. Well. Derek is settling himself between Stiles’ legs and they’re pressed together chest to chest, Derek’s arms bracketing Stiles, surrounding him.

“Do I look like I want to kill you?” Derek pauses for a second. He looks kind of worried for Stiles. He’s not alone. “Have you actually been awake for the last three months?”

Stiles isn’t sure what that has to do with _anything_. “Yes?” he tries.

But Derek is leaning down now, nudging into his neck and nipping gently up his jawline, and anything else that Stiles might have had to say gets lost in a gasp.

Derek smiles at him, bright and conspiratorial, and curves his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, tracing a thumb down his cheek. “I’ll give you a hint,” he murmurs. And suddenly he’s kissing Stiles, deep and thorough.

Derek pulls away much too soon, as far as Stiles is concerned. Any thoughts he might have had on the matter, though, get swept away as soon as Derek sits up and tugs off his shirt. He pauses for a second, skin lit dimly from the desk lamp. He’s almost inhumanly gorgeous, and Stiles stares, momentum lost and mouth gone suddenly dry. Seriously, seventeen years without any play at all, and suddenly he gets _this_? There should be some kind of warning system for this kind of thing, Stiles is totally unprepared. There would be _notes_ if he had known. _Research_.

Above him, Derek notices his discomfort and goes still. “You okay?”

There’s genuine concern in his voice, and Stiles relaxes a little at that. This is Derek, who Stiles trusts despite his absolute best efforts not to, and he’s gotten this far despite Stiles’ extreme weirdness. He’s not going to run screaming into the night. Probably.

Stiles avoids eye contact anyway, looks off to the side and bites his lip. He sits up as much as he can, propped up awkwardly on his free elbow. It brings him even closer to Derek, who’s unmoving above him, gaze focused entirely (and terrifyingly) on Stiles. “I’ve never actually done this before. Like, anything, ever,” he admits to the wall.

He flinches a little when Derek touches his face gently, tilts his head so he can look Stiles in the eye. “You’re doing fine.”

A breath that Stiles didn’t think he had been holding escapes. “Yeah. Okay. Good.”

Derek nods seriously, like this is a matter of gravity instead of Stiles being a complete virgin lameass. When he pulls Stiles in for another kiss, it’s sweet and reassuring and painstakingly slow.

But Stiles is okay now, any previous nerves lost to lust, and he is in no way in need of a slowdown. He surges up to deepen the kiss, trying to communicate his complete situational okayness through it. He’s been waiting for this for a long time, and he’s not going to let it go to waste. He breaks the kiss off and jangles the handcuff again. “Get me out of these.”

Derek jerks his head up and stares at the cuffs for a second like he had forgotten about their existence, then grins. “Maybe. Or maybe I should leave them on, make sure you don’t go anywhere.” His tone is teasing, almost light, but there’s an undercurrent there that hits Stiles and uncurls low and hot in his gut. He swallows a whimper and shakes his head.

“I’m not. Derek. I promise, just please, please let me go.” He arches up into Derek, baring his throat shamelessly, offering himself up.

"I’ll do anything.” A shiver goes through him when he thinks about just what that might entail-Derek doesn’t even need handcuffs to keep Stiles still, really. He could do pretty much whatever he wanted to Stiles now-hold him down, tease him, leave him undone and well-fucked or begging and strung out, desperate for more.

Derek growls low in his throat, his fingers digging into Stiles’ sides. His voice, when it comes, is deep and rough, a warning. “Do you really want to make that promise?” And the truly fucked up thing is that Stiles really, really does. He wants to promise an _Alpha werewolf_ his unquestioning obedience and trust. He nods, close to desperation, prays that Derek gets it.

Apparently Derek does, because he leans over to the cuff tying Stiles to the bed and just-breaks it. Like it’s made of toy store plastic, not _steel_.

It’s kind of...unbelievably hot, actually, and Stiles is willing to admit that. He pauses for a second, considering, then grabs up at Derek’s broad shoulders for leverage, because he has a plan. A vertical plan that involves more naked Derek.

He gets sidetracked almost immediately when Derek comes down with Stiles instead, pushing Stiles’ shirt up so he can trace scratches down Stiles’ chest and nip first at Stiles’ neck, then at his lips until he opens his mouth and lets Derek in. It’s all _careful_ , though-Derek is pretty clearly holding something back, even if Stiles isn’t sure what that something is. He’s pretty sure he wants it regardless, though.

New-found bravado aside, Stiles still startles a little when Derek slides his hands further up his shirt, hands smooth and sure on Stiles’ skin. He inclines his head a little, shifts so his lips line up against Stiles’ ear. “Can I?” Stiles manages a nod, and is rewarded with a kiss, Derek’s mouth hot and insistent on his. He shudders a little at the feeling of Derek’s fingers dragging up his chest, pulling his shirt up and off.

Stiles can feel himself tense up after Derek’s turned away to toss his shirt on the rapidly-growing pile by Stiles’ bed. He’s not awful to look at, he knows that, but he’s still miles away from Derek’s powerful shoulders and sharply defined abs. But Derek doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls back for a minute and just looks at Stiles, a slow-burning stare that rakes over Stiles and leaves him shivering, naked of more than just clothing.

There’s too much wrapped up in that look-more than Stiles can handle right now, anyway. But he thinks it might be worth thinking about later. For now, though, he lifts his hips to let Derek pull off his jeans and underwear, trying and failing to stifle a moan at the friction of the cloth over his erection. Derek jerks his head up at the sound, his eyes flashing red around pupils blown wide with lust. “Don’t try to stay quiet.” His voice is a bare whisper. “Want to hear you.”

How is he even supposed to _think_ when Derek’s saying shit like that. Stiles whimpers and lets his head fall back. He’s going to die. He’s dimly aware of Derek pulling away for a second and getting up, the soft sound of jeans hitting the floor somewhere far away. Derek settles on his thighs, hands tracing teasingly up his cock. It’s not enough. He bucks up, greedy for more, and whines when instead Derek’s hands trap his arms at his sides, pinning him down and holding him still.

“Fuck, look at you,” Derek murmurs in his ear. “Knew you’d be like this-the noises you make, god.” His voice is barely controlled, ragged at the edges, and Stiles gets some satisfaction out of that. At least Stiles isn’t the only one who’s falling apart here.

Right on cue, Derek nips sharply at his earlobe, humming contentedly when Stiles jerks up. “You asshole,” Stiles breathes, and Derek turns and smirks at him.

“Tell me what you want, then,” and it’s an invitation and a command and a question all at once. Stiles doesn’t know where to begin.

“Let me up, please Derek, need to touch you, _need_ you.” The words slur together a little and come out trembly and thick, _wanton_ , and Stiles thinks, distantly, that he should be ashamed. Derek closes his eyes for a moment, then shifts his hands away, setting Stiles free again.

“How?” Derek rasps. “My hand?” He reaches down, cups Stiles’ cock, eyes flickering in satisfaction when Stiles moans and rocks into his hand.

“My mouth?” and Derek bends and sucks him down and- _oh_. Derek’s mouth. Jesus. He draws in a shaky breath at the wet, obscene noises Derek is making around his cock, at Derek’s hands on his hips, pinning him down.

He’s on the edge, warmth building at the base of his spine, when Derek pulls off.

“What, _no_ ,” Stiles says, as Derek prods at him until he shifts up and over to make room for Derek beside him. He’s just pushing himself up to a sitting position when Derek growls at him impatiently, grabbing him and just- Jesus, yanking him over.

His cheeks heat when he realizes just what that means. He’s sprawled across Derek’s lap, Derek’s hands already moving on his thighs to hitch his legs apart. He squirms a little and presses down experimentally, and yeah, that’s definitely Derek, hard underneath him. “Yeah,” Derek murmurs, and he sounds absolutely _wrecked_. “Like that--” He slides a hand up Stiles’ thigh to circle around his cock and thumb over its head, exhaling roughly when Stiles moans. “More?” He doesn’t wait for a yes.

It’s almost too much by now, really. He doesn’t last long, comes all over Derek’s hand and himself with a shudder and collapses back onto Derek’s chest. Derek’s not far behind him, rocking his hips up and-fuck-sinking his teeth into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles yelps, jumps a little, and- ends up on his bedroom floor. Yes, this is definitely still his life. It doesn’t matter, anyway; the world is clearly ending soon, because _Derek Hale_ is laughing. A real laugh, sweet and bright, and Stiles wonders how often people heard it, before. How often Kate heard it, maybe, before she burned it out. He pushes the thought away and grins up at Derek from the floor instead. "And now you get to pull me up, funny man." Derek does, and even if he's not laughing he's _definitely_ still grinning. Stiles can't be angry about that, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> So this started off as a Dumb Thing and then turned into a story and then didn't fit into the rest of the story? And then I decided to inflict it on the Internet anyway. Sorry, everyone.


End file.
